Monopoly Redux
by snooky-9093
Summary: for the SSSW contest. Passing the time away on a cold, wet, night.


_Monopoly Redux_

 _didn't think I would get anything up for this year's SSSW contest. But, here it is. Real speed writing (last minute) I already have a Monopoly story, so why not bring back the game for another tale!_

Colonel Robert Hogan mindlessly hummed a tune as he quickly walked across the compound on the way back to his barracks. It was another cold, rainy night, and he adjusted his collar in an attempt to ward off the dampness in the air. Winter doldrums had set in, and in an attempt to stop the men from going stir-crazy, Hogan decided to spend time in Klink's quarters. His goal that evening; bargaining with the Kommandant for extra privileges.

He had won, but the bargaining had taken a toll, Hogan was forced to listen to several tunes on Klink's violin, and play a game of chess with the Kommandant. The German prattled on all evening, regaling the American with stories that would put a lesser commander to sleep.

" _I don't understand, Hogan, how so many modes of transportation can have so many problems. For example…" Klink paused to take a drink. "My car. Your men fix something, and then something else breaks."_

" _Well, they do a great job keeping it clean, sir."_

 _"No more of them playing mechanic. And, I have to tell you, we've been having a situation with couriers."_

 _Klink was enjoying his supply of liquor and he continued talking. Hogan was hoping Klink would blab something important, but so far, all he was doing was complaining. "They seem to be running into explosives. Or something. Our usual courier…I forget his name…Do you know?" Klink poured himself another drink._

" _No sir. But a word of advice..." Hogan smiled. "He seems to attract bad luck_ ** _. Just don't lend him your bicycle_** _." He moved a chess piece. "Or your motorcycle, car…whatever. It's bound to go boom."_

" _Excellent advice." Klink countered Hogan's move. He then continued to talk Hogan's ear off. The conversation drifted to earlier days._

" _Where was I in the mid-thirties?" Hogan repeated Klink's question. "Various bases," he answered, not willing to give away too much information._

 ** _"As a matter of fact, I was in Berlin at that time myself_** _," Klink stated as he moved his rook._

 ** _For the first time since I've been in command here, I want to know nothing_** _, thought Hogan as he fought to stay awake. "Is that a fact?" He moved his piece._

 _"Indeed." Klink sat back in his chair and looked at the other officer. "It was the most remarkable display of physical prowess I had ever seen. And the crowds...Ah, what a time it was. Show the world the Third Reich, and what we could accomplish." He leaned into the table. "I will admit I was very impressed with your Mr. Owens."_

 _Hogan sat back in his chair. The last thing he wanted to reminisce about was the 1936 Olympics. The entire subject made him shudder involuntarily. He forced a yawn. "Kommandant, I should get back to the barracks."_ ** _A lot can happen in two hours_** _, thought Hogan, especially with the men so antsy._

 _Klink looked at his watch. "Oh? Well, yes. You've been gone a while." He grinned_ ** _. "Forget it, the game is over._** _" He moved his queen. "Checkmate."_

Meanwhile, back at the barracks...

 **"Tick tock, tick tock**." Newkirk said as he impatiently drummed his fingers on the table." C'mon Carter. I'm not getting any younger. Your turn." The five other men scattered around the table stared at the young sergeant, who was, in their mind, taking way too long to roll the dice.

"I know, Newkirk. I know." Carter bit his lower lip. He finally rolled, letting out a loud groan as the dice stopped, revealing their numbers. "Oh, drat." He moved his token, one, two, three, four, five spaces, and then stopped.

Newkirk laughed. " **You boys sure picked a bad night** ," he said, rubbing his hands together in delight. "Let's see, for landing on Pennsylvania Avenue, you owe me $450."

"Geez, Louise, Peter. I don't have it. You own everything," Carter complained as he looked around at his bunkmates for help.

They all shrugged in defeat. This game would go down in the history books.

"As a matter of fact, my dear friend…" Newkirk put his arm around Carter's shoulder. Annoyed, the tech sergeant turned his head and deftly removed Newkirk's arm. "I don't own everything. See **…I want the other six.** " Newkirk pointed to the first side of the board. There were six properties there. The cheapest streets and a railroad.

"Guys?" Carter asked with a clear sense of urgency.

"Sorry, mon ami. I've lost all my money." LeBeau slumped down in his chair. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

" **How can you lose something you never had** ," Kinch muttered. In his opinion, LeBeau never could get the gist of the American board game.

Carter was about to do something he really did not want to do, when Olsen tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up at the Outside Man, who pointed to his empty mug. Carter sighed in relief. "Newkirk?"

"Yes? "

" **I am not dead!"** Carter announced triumphantly, as he realized he was in the best position of all the other players competing against Newkirk. He reached for the mug and moved it. He had forgotten that, long ago, when the game started, he had purchased the Water Works and placed the card beneath the mug. Apparently, that had slipped Newkirk's mind as well. "I can give you every cent I have, and this property."

Newkirk thought for a moment, and then with some sympathy, he agreed. "Sold. Who's next?"

And the game continued.

LeBeau's teeth chattered, as he fortunately found himself landing in jail. The lucky observers tried vainly to warm up the hut by throwing whatever useful items they could find into the stove. Now tired of watching Newkirk dominate another game, they huddled together in the far corner, and whispered among themselves. Broughton was recounting a time when three members of the core team actually were caught red-handed by the Gestapo and Schultz had to impersonate Colonel Klink to get them released from Stalag 4. ***

" **How did three men do all that without any help**?" asked Walters, the newest resident.

"Well, we have fake dog tags down below, and they took it upon themselves to grab three with ridiculous names that didn't match their accents or uniforms. Colonel Hogan had a fit, and the metal shop churned out new tags with better names." Broughton crouched down as best as he could. "I have to tell you," he whispered. "Three men didn't get them into that fiasco. There were four originally. Kinch didn't get caught. They went the wrong way…"

"Hey, Broughton," whispered Goldman. " **The first thing we've got to do is not let him know that we know.** " Goldman glanced over at the game. Fortunately, it appeared the players were not paying any attention to the rest of the residents. "He's still awfully embarrassed."

"Let who know that we know….or that you know…or wait, I'm confused." Walters scratched his head. Since he was captured, sent to Stalag 13, and ended up in this barracks, he was confused more often than not. But, so far, he realized everything always seemed to work out. Walters remembered his grandfather's advice: **Life teaches only one thing-there are no answers**. You only had to make the best of the situation, and take action when needed. And he was grateful to be given the chance to take part in Hogan's operation. Walters had been here long enough to guess the name of the one who screwed up.

"It was Carter. He forgot his compass," Broughton stated.

"Ah." Walter wasn't surprised. But, Carter was well-liked. There was not a single man in camp who wouldn't do anything for the tech sergeant.

"Oi." A fully dressed Newkirk…he was now wearing a long greatcoat...stood up. "What are you nattering about over there?"

"Nothing," Goldman said. "Just discussing the weather." He motioned for the others to follow him back over to the table, where the game was still in progress.

The conversation shifted over to speculation as the chilliest men taking part in the Monopoly debacle took a break to stand by the stove. A new underground cell recently made contact, and after a quick and furtive meeting the other night between Hogan and an operative in a Hofbrau located north of town, the team did what they always did after someone reached out to them out of the blue. They tried to figure out who made the first step.

Saunders began counting possibilities off on his hand. "The owner, the cook, one of the suppliers? The green grocer?" Max, the green grocer, was one of the original members of the local cell.

LeBeau shook his head. "Non. Max did not know these people. There is another supplier north of town."

"We really shouldn't have these conversations,"said Olsen. **"On the other hand, it could be the barmaid."** He was often the first recipient of a secretive message, and in this case, he received the initial coded note.

"Description? Blonde, Brunette?" asked Goldman. One of the boys in the back row, he stayed put, and like many, he relished even the thought of seeing or meeting a girl.

"Red-head." Olsen walked back over to the table, and shivering, sat down. "Never mind that. Can we finish this thing before the colonel gets back? He'll have our hides if he sees this."

"No worries, gents." Newkirk deftly organized his pile of Monopoly money. "He's enjoying the Kommandant's company." The group laughed. "No, really. Sharing a nice bottle of schnapps, keeping warm, playing chess or listening to Klink's stories..." Newkirk paled. It has been close to two hours. " **Absolutely nothing to worry about…or is there?"**

The men stared at each other.

"I think we ought to clean this up." Newkirk began collecting his winnings. First, he picked up the fake cash and shoved it into his pockets.

"He's not going to be in a good mood when he gets back," Kinch pointed out. "Coming back to a freezing, cold, wet barracks after dealing with Klink." The radioman then rubbed his hands together and began stomping his feet in an attempt to get back some feeling in his limbs. He grabbed the game board and was about to put it away when someone watching through the window caught a glimpse of Hogan in the searchlights.

"He's almost here!" the man shouted in alarm.

The men became like deer in the headlights. They were in so much trouble, they froze.

The door opened, and Hogan, grateful to be out of the Kommandant's clutches, but happy that he acquired some concessions, was looking forward to updating his men and then going to bed. He walked through the threshold, closed the door behind him, and stood….

"What the…." Hogan couldn't finish his sentence. It appeared that the men were playing a game. Kinch was holding a game board. Monopoly, was the colonel's guess. "What the…" he repeated.

"Hello, sir." Carter stepped forward. "How did it go with Klink?" he asked, his face a mask of innocence.

There were fifteen men living in Barracks two. Five of them, all standing by the table, were in various states of undress. And they were all shivering. Meanwhile, Newkirk was wrapped up as snug as a bug in a rug. Hogan immediately saw he was wearing his greatcoat. He had several scarves wrapped around his neck, gloves covering his hands, and a hat under his RAF cap. He surmised that there were several shirts, sweaters and an extra pair of pants underneath, and Hogan spied a few other articles of clothing on Newkirk's bunk.

"You're playing strip Monopoly?" he squeaked out. "Strip Monopoly," he repeated.

"Well, you see guv'nor. We didn't aim to have it start out that way…"

"Newkirk, how could you?" The other players looked pathetic. They were silent, figuring Newkirk was at fault, and he should take the blame. Hogan shook his head. These were all grown men. Well, at least the majority of the barrack residents were sensible. This was a first.

Kinch decided to offer an explanation. "We wanted to play something different for a change, and well…."

"Even you, Kinch?" Hogan asked sadly.

The radioman gave a sheepish shrug. "Um, Newkirk can I get my pants back?"

Newkirk took one look at Hogan's face and then hurried over to his bunk. "All in good fun." He gave a half-hearted chuckle as he began tossing items of clothing to the five other players. Meanwhile, as a sign of either unity or self-preservation, the fully dressed residents began to clean up the barracks.

Hogan plopped down in a chair and watched Newkirk strip away layers of clothing. "Strip poker I could see, and in the summer. But..."

"See, no harm done, guv'nor. Everyone is right as rain." Newkirk said when the room was straightened and players were again dressed. He was a bit apprehensive. Would Hogan lose it, or would this be another one of those incidents best left for posterity; funny war stories you'd tell your grandchildren when the time came.

Hogan rose and stood still for a moment. Wondering what would happen next, all the men held their breath. Finally, Hogan spoke. "I'm forgetting this ever happened. Newkirk, if you ever decide to apply to host one of those game shows on the radio after the war, and you need a reference, do not, under any circumstance, give them my name." And with that, the colonel went into his office and shut the door, leaving the fourteen men in the common room surprised but relieved.

"A game show host on the radio? Blimey, I never thought about that. A new career! What do you all think?"

Newkirk ducked as every man grabbed whatever loose item they could find and threw it at the corporal. "Keep your 'air on. From now on, we'll stick with gin." Newkirk threw back some of the larger items, and then hopped into his bunk, smiling.

* * *

 _***The Great Impersonation_


End file.
